


the holly bears a prickle as sharp as any thorn

by houselannister



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blood and Glory Christmas Challenge, Christmas, F/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 20:20:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1098202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/houselannister/pseuds/houselannister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas morning, London 2012. Tywin Lannister expects the family to gather for the anual Christmas lunch at Eaton Hall. A snow storm might hinder Jaime and Cersei's attendance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the holly bears a prickle as sharp as any thorn

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Blood and Glory RP Christmas challenge (prompt: snow) and for the Jaime/Cersei Library Christmas challenge on tumblr. Thanks to Ashley for the patience of betaing this monster. And thanks to my dog who has been snoring next to me for the past hour, completely unaware of the struggle of deadlines.
> 
> This is fluff and tragedy all in one. I'm not going to lie, part of this fic is shamelessly self-indulging, because I needed a happier scenarion that the one we usually write for. But then again, Jaime and Cersei are Jaime and Cersei, and angst found a way in. I don't control it. It controls me.

The holly and the ivy,  
When they are both full grown,  
Of all the trees that are in the wood,  
The holly wears the crown.

 

* * *

**  
**  


Tywin Lannister was not a man to be easily denied. The Duke of Westminster had a way that did not imply words: stern looks and untwitching lips often did the trick just as effectively as a bellowed command. That was the way it had always been, that was the way the House of Lords had been ruled by the old lion for a long time. That was, eventually, all Tywin's children had ever known throughout their life. It was comfortable, in a way: they had never had to hide the shining purple of a bruise on their cheekbones, nor explain a suspicious reddening. No, Tywin Lannister had never touched them. Possibly, that was the reason why people thought them unscathed, unhurt. _People_ , however, didn't know half the reality behind Tywin Lannister's steady hands; yes, he had never once laid hands on them, but discipline had come all the same, by means of psychological tricks and silences filled with dread. It was both Tywin's hits that his children had learned to beware: it was what Tywin could do without as much as looking at them.

Of course when Tywin Lannister informed his family that the annual Christmas dinner would be held at Eaton Hall instead of Downing Street, no one had said a word. Not even Robert Baratheon, the Prime Minister. For the past five years they had gathered into the halls of number 10, Lannisters and Baratheons sharing a meal (too long), exchanging gifts (hardly heartfelt), and drinking scotch before the fireplace (the only comfort of the night).

Jaime had attempted a vague inquiry on who would be there but Tywin had dismissed him: "Whoever needs to be." Jaime had not said more. He didn't care about Christmas at Downing Street and he didn't care about Christmas at Eaton Hall. In fact, he could not remember the last time he had cared about Christmas at all -- he did, it was the year before Cersei's engagement and he had been able to sneak into her bedroom without worrying about that oaf Robert Baratheon sharing her mattress. Those days were long gone and he could no longer hope to kiss her when the ancient grandfather's clock struck midnight, nor touch her and watch her shiver in the glow of the marble fireplace in the room that had been hers. All he had were fleeting moments, a quick fuck before the household woke up on Christmas morning _if he was lucky_. No, Jaime Lannsiter had not experienced the magic of Christmas in too many years.

"Why are we here again?"

Cersei's heels clacked against the hard tiles just outside Tyrion's apartment; Jaime followed, already tugging at the red tie that seemed to have a life of its own and chill the air out of his throat. He had slipped into his new italian suit, tailored in Venice; Cersei had worn something french, something tight. Something red. (Jaime wasn't a conoisseur of women's fashion; all he cared about was how high he could inch up his sister's skirt, or how easily he could pull down her zipper. He enjoyed the picture like he enjoyed a painting, but looking for the sake of looking bored him immensely.)

Cersei glanced at him, then dangled a bunch of keys, holding the keychain over her index finger.

"Glad to know at least we're not breaking and entering," Jaime quipped, sarcasm oozing off his words. "I wouldn't want to add that to our resume." His sister hadn't offered a satisfactory explanation: all she had chanced to say was that she needed to retrieve something from Tyrion's apartment. That had sounded odd for two different reasons: the first one being Cersei entrusting Tyrion with anything, the second one being Tyrion letting their sister anywhere near his possessions. Still, there they were, and Jaime was in the dark.

"I told you, there's something I have to grab before we go." Again, not an explanation at all. Just crumbs of it, hints.

Eaton Hall was a long way from London, a good four hours' ride, and Tywin insisted they'd be there by noon. A few calculations and a quick glance down at his wrist told him they were already half an hour late on their timetable. Their father would not be impressed. Robert and the children had taken the first car at Cersei's insistence; Tyrion was likely to join them last just to spite Tywin -- but Cersei was not unprepared, and she had made sure her younger brother would be out by the time their towncar had pulled up before the building.

And there they were, then; they halted before the door to Tyrion's apartment and Cersei fiddled with the keys until she found one that would fit the keyhole. She slipped it inside with no resistance and with a couple of turns the door was open. Jaime pushed it further and held it for her as she stepped in.

He wanted to ask her how she got a hold of the keys to Tyrion's apartment, seeing as certainly they had not been giving her in an excess of zeal on his brother's part -- but he also knew better than to meddle with Cersei's business when it came to Tyrion. Ignorance is bliss, he knew, and he would do better to stay out of it if he hoped to mantain the middle ground he had fought for.

At last, when they were inside and he had pushed the door closed behind them, Cersei smiled wide and bright. For a moment it lit up the whole room.

"I asked Jocelyn to hide Joffrey's present," she began, walking into the apartment and looking around for something specific. "You know how he is, he searches every corner of the house to find his presents ahead of time, just so he can ask for new ones because the surprise is ruined." As Cersei spoke of her son there was a softness in her, a fondness Jaime was jealous of. The boy was a brat, a downright nightmare, yet Cersei was blind to it and seemed to only love him more with each new warning the kid received in college. If anyone deserved that tone, that loving gaze, it was him - _Jaime_ , not Joffrey.

His son. He was envious of his own son. Jaime started wondering when his life became the punchline of some lame joke.

"Of course Joff would never think to look for it in here," his sister continued. She halted before a cupboard and looked around; then she grabbed a chair nearby and dragged it over. He watched her as she took off her shoes and stepped onto the chair, towering him. Jaime scoffed: of course she would make sure the thing was hidden where her brother couldn't reach it. Sadistically amusing. She stretched her arm upwards, reaching for the highest shelf, where she moved everything she found in her path until she had found what she wanted -- Jaime knew because she made a little noise, halfway between a yelp and a gasp.

Curiosity made him step closer, offering her a hand to step down; she leant on his shoulder and let him help her. Jaime didn't notice the white envelope she was holding until she was back on the ground, and he was once again taller than her.

"Did you get him a voucher to buy some common sense?" he asked, snatching the letter from her. It wasn't sealed, so he easily lifted the lid and pulled out a clean folded paper; Cersei was still smiling, looking at the paper instead of him. As he started making sense of what he was reading he furrowed his brow, glancing at Cersei, then the paper, then his sister once more. "You got him a car. He doesn't even have a driving license." He almost added that he was likely to run Tyrion over just for fun, but perhaps that would not make a point, not against Cersei. The truth was, that wasn't really what bothered him. "You never got _me_ a car for Christmas. Hell, you never got me that motorbike I distinctly remember showing you three years ago!"

"Don't be a baby," she snapped, but she was laughing off his inquiries, one by one.

Somewhere the windows began vibrating harshly as the wind rattled against them. Cersei looked around and this time she was the one to frown.

"We should go before this turns into a storm. You know how I hate car rides in the rain."

But something had gotten a hold of him, jealousy, likely, or whatever sinful rage at the thought that she wasn't undivided, that his sister was no longer just his. One might argue he should have been used to it by now, what with her marriage and her having to share a bed with another man she was lawfully wedded to -- this was different; Cersei did not love Robert, therefore it had never caused him any discomfort. Frustration, maybe, but he knew where his sister's heart truly lay. But Joffrey, and the other kids as well, they demanded too much of her, bits and pieces he believed should belong to him. When she turned to leave his hand shot out, grabbing a hold of her wrist and blocking her between the cupboard and his own chest, pressing her against the fine glass doors. She chuckled, leaning back and away from him, avoiding his gaze. He tilted his head and brought a hand to her cheek, turning her face to him. She muttered something, words he couldn't comprehend, or didn't want to.

"Perhaps I want to unwrap my christmas present early," he whispered, his mouth inches away from hers. A door slammed shut in the darkest corners of the apartment, as the wind found a crack through the windows. Something rapped insistently against the glass, harsh and violent. It had started raining hard. "We're already late, what harm can a couple more minutes do?"

"A couple minutes?" she breathed. "That doesn't sound enthralling."

Jaime let the white envelope fall to the ground; his fingers skimmed across the red fabric of her dress, brushing her sides, the curve of her hip, toying with the hem of the dress before letting his hand wander underneath it, caressing the skin through the thin stocking. It was warmer, and his hands had been too cold ever since he'd woken up. His sister hissed when he pressed the heel of his palm against her, and he grinned.

"Oh it will be."

 

* * *

 

Jaime watched intently as she fixed her appearance; he could have told her she didn't need to, that she could very well sit at the dinner table that evening just as she was right now, hair tousled and smudged lipstick, and she would still be the most graceful creature. There was something in the way she looked after they did this, a sort of blasphemous stain on her almost angelic features. Jaime knew there was nothing angelic in her whenever she writhed against him, but that was for him to know, a precious picture he alone was entitled to.

He knew his sister's routine enough to be perfectly aware of exactly how many minutes he would have to wait to be on the road. All he'd had to was pull up his trousers and fix his tie; Cersei, however, would have to go through the whole process of applying whatever awful mask she thought would make her look younger. To Jaime, that was unacceptable; she didn't need all that, she didn't need all that lipstick and powder. She needed nothing more than what she had already been gifted with. To Jaime, there had never been anyone more beautiful. It was a self-indulging thought, for he knew how similar they were.

With a flick of the remote control Jaime switched the TV on and laid back on the immense leather couch. The voice of the newscaster filled the room, a buzzing that wasn't enough to block out the wind outside the window, nor the rain which had only gotten worse while their minds were elsewhere. It was Christmas morning and even the BBC had little green mistletoe around the news bar. The anchorman went on and on about the weather, describing it as "unsafe for travelling". Jaime felt Cersei stiffen behind him, and he knew she would blame his little patience for the bumpy road they would face. He made a point of training his eyes on the screen, avoiding the guilt trip.

That was when his phone rang. It vibrated against his chest, and he shifted to take it out of his breast pocket. When he read the ID of the caller he let his head loll back; he stretched his arm over the back of the couch, holding the phone out for Cersei. She glanced at it with annoyance and grabbed it, sending a scathing glance his way before walking down the corridor and disappearing into the next room. The last thing Jaime heard before her voice was muffled by the distance was a faint "Dad?" and he wordlessly returned his eyes on the television screen.

He knew Tywin would berate them once he knew they were still in London. Eventually it had not been a couple of minutes, as he had promised. At 10AM, they were now two full hours later than they should be; they would never make it by noon, especially with a storm raging outside. Jaime wondered if Tywin would have let them get away with Christmas tea rather than Christmas lunch.

He tried to sneak a peek at Cersei, but even craning his neck didn't offer him a visual. He could hear her whispering in the other room agitatedly. The television offered footage from different parts of the country, including London. Many cities were enveloped in windwhirls of white snow, the streets were deserted and more than one car seemed to be stuck in the snow. An old man was filmed nearby Liverpool, walking on his own, wrapped in wool, with a hoodie that covered most of his face from the raging wind; the snow reached halfway up his shin. Jaime grimaced.

Eaton Hall was beautiful in winter, but Jaime wasn't that much of a winter person. He preferred spring and summer, when the statues spilled fresh water in the fountains and the lawn was a vivid green. He liked to ride horseback until his biceps ached and to feel the breeze in his face on a good gallop. Winter felt like graveyard material, all of them entombed within four walls (Downing Street or Eaton Hall, it made no difference); they were too old to play with the snow, even Tommen wasn't fond of it. Lannister Christmases were indoors, and it was hard to escape outsiders when they were stuck with them on the inside. Robert Baratheon, Jon Arryn and his Tully wife, countless board members of Lannister LTD ready to attack him and ask him when he would finally do them the honour of joining the company; overall, he wasn't looking forward to it at all.

Jaime glanced at the window for the first time and he saw that the scenery it offered wasn't that different from the footage shown in the news: silhouettes surrounded by white, angry, swirling white, that was all he could see. Dread settled in the pit of his stomach as he thought of the road to Cheshire: Eaton Hall was a long way from London, a long, snowy way. He rose from the couch, pressing his fists into the leather for leverage, then he walked up to the tall window that looked down on the street; the towncar was still in the road, its top painted white. The snow seemed to cover a good half of the tires and Jaime wasn't sure he would have the faintest idea of how to use snow chains (someone had usually done that for him). The situation seem to grew more dire by the second, and when he finally heard his sister's stilettos again he wasn't surprised to take in the frustration on her face.

"The entirity of Cheshire is snowed in," she announced, following with an angry scoff. "No one can get out."

"And no one can get in," he continued, turning his gaze away from her. As he faced the window once again his lips twitched in the smallest smile. Perhaps there was a God somewhere and for once he'd been listening.

"Father said, and I quote, ' _Find a way to be here by noon or don't bother coming at all._ ' So unless you can find some means of teletransportation within the next two hours..." Cersei was seething, though it wasn't clear if it was for the situation they were in or for the fact she had been the one to suffer Tywin's threats. "If only we'd gotten on the road when I told you to-"

"We would be stuck somewhere in between London and the Hall, in this fucking shitstorm," he bellowed in return. He was sick of the reprimanding and constant blaming. "You were not complaining ten minutes ago, _love_." Cersei fell silent, fingers wrapped tightly around his cell phone, tapping one foot nervously as she looked for a remark to turn the tables back on him; when it was clear there was nothing in her favour, she dropped the phone onto the couch and turned around, starting to rummage through her purse. "What are you doing?"

"We're going back to Downing Street, I need to call back the house staff," she murmured when she found her own phone, punching the keys angrily. "Merry fucking Christmas to them, I suppose. I'm not going to be left unattended."

Jaime covered the distance in long, fast strides, snatching the phone from her and holding it out of reach; before Cersei could protest he silenced her with a finger over her lips. "Or maybe you could listen to my offer." She wanted to argue, it was written all over her face, but Jaime lifted his eyebrow and smiled playfully. "We will never make it to Eaton Hall in time for lunch. The London staff is home for the holidays. Tyrion is probably stuck in his towncar somewhere across the English countryside." He listed every point carefully, lowering his arm slowly. Cersei didn't try to snatch it from him; she seemed to be listening, and that didn't go unnoticed. "Let's stay here," he said. "At least until the storm ends."

When he finally lifted his finger she parted her lips to say something; Jaime braced himself for a string of reasons why they should not, why it was risky, why she would not endanger everything that easily. All of that he knew already; she had told him many times. Those words never came, not in that moment; instead she pressed her lips into a thin line and let out a deep breath through her nose, part sigh part snort. He nodded slowly and she lowered her gaze, bracing herself.

"It's cold in here," said Cersei then, taking off her white coat. It was all he needed.

"I'll turn on the heat."

 

* * *

 

"Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

After they'd both agreed to take advantage of Tyrion's unaware hospitality until the snow storm was over, Jaime had taken it upon himself to warn their father. It had not been an easy call; he was sure their father actually expected them to find a way to make it to Cheshire, so when Jaime had called to tell him they would not be there for lunch, Tywin's outrage had been unceremonious. He had hung up on him without a word, leaving Jaime to explain the dangers of driving in such conditions to a dead device. Way past the point of giving a shit -- unlike Cersei, who had bit her nails throughout the phone call, watching him anxiously -- Jaime had shrugged it off. Tywin might make sure the rest of their holidays were miserable, but it was worth it if he could get just this one day.

Cersei feared their father more than Jaime and Tyrion ever had. Jaime knew he was too precious to be actively antagonized by Tywin, while Tyrion had learned a long time ago not to expect any sympathy from their father, and lived happily for it. Their sister, on the other hand, seemed to live by Tywin's words way more than either son ever had. She strived for their father's attentions, craved a position of prestige in Tywin's regards; she always fell short, however, and Jaime knew she might never get what she wanted because he hoarded it himself, although unwillingly. Sometimes he felt sorry for her. Sometimes he envied her. It wasn't quite as easy as she might expect, carrying a legacy, knowing everything to be destined for you and not wanting any of it. All he wanted, disheartening as it was, was her. The one thing he could never have in broad daylight.

When she muttered about being hungry they had moved into the kitchen. Cersei had sitten down and watched him as he opened every cabinet in sight. It seemed his brother didn't have as fine a palate for food as he had for wine. He had settled for something quick -- the only thing he thought he could manage. When he had opened the first egg, it had slipped right through his fingers, slimy and treacherous, and it had landed on the white tiles. Cersei had leaned forward to examine the damage, but she hadn't even made a move to stand up; instead she had leaned back once more and shot him a skeptic glance. Jaime had lifted a finger and asked for silence. The next eggs were easier, once he knew it was better to keep his hands above the bowl. The rest was children's play, and it took him only half an hour to have everything ready. Meanwhile Cersei had grabbed a candy cane from one of their brother's stockings, and was biting at it. His remark about the resemblance with a rabbit had fallen on deaf ears. She'd kept chewing on the thing, deliberately slow to make a point of just how long she'd been waiting for him to be done. Her face was mocking him, everything about her posture was mocking him, and yet the domestic vibe of it all made him laugh at her. It reminded him of when they were fifteen, sneaking into the kitchen around midnight, craving something sweet. She was older now, and so was he, but for a moment it was as if time had stood still for the past thirty years.

When he poured the first spoonful of mixture on the hot pan Cersei stood up and came by the stove, watching as the pale turned brownish on each side.

"Pancakes are supposed to be quick," she quipped, as he flipped the first soft circlet once more before letting it slide onto a plate nearby. "And easy."

"It was easy," he responded, nodding his head at the first successful result.

"Well it wasn't quick."

He poured another spoonful and chuckled in response. He wondered if she could even make those, let alone make them quickly.

"Where did you learn, anyway," added Cersei as an afterthought. "I didn't know you could cook." She seemed offended at the notion that there might be something of him she didn't know, something they didn't share.

"Bachelor skills, I guess," he replied, without really thinking. He didn't dwell on the implications until he noticed Cersei's silence. He looked at her, sideways, watching her frown at him. What did she expect? That was what he was to everyone but the two of them. She had wanted it this way. (There was no other way, but it was easier to think of their tragedy as someone's fault rather than a doom no one would ever be able to fix.)

Jaime looked down at the pan without really seeing it, thinking of how different their lives might be elsewhere, somewhere no one knew them, somewhere he would be able to wake up and have this every morning until his legs were too old to keep him standing. To have her every night and to be with her every day.

The loud crunch made him turn his head; Cersei was chewing angrily on the hard sugar, twirling it between her fingers. She swallowed and looked purposefully away, as the previous playful cheerfulness seemed to flee the room. He brought a finger to the corner of her mouth and brushed away a small piece of red sugar, before leaning in kissing her chastely right there. They both kept their eyes open and he broke away with a smile that was meant to be reassuring. She smiled too, briefly, so briefly that he couldn't tell if he'd kissed the sadness away or merely pushed it away for the moment.

"It's burning," she whispered.

"I know."

"No, I mean the pancake," she said, lifting an eyebrow and trying to suppress the laughter. "You burnt it."

Jaime smelled it too late. "Fuck." Light smoke rose from the pan and the smell of burnt food hang in the air, strong in their nostrils. When he tried to flip it around it was hardened and blackened, good only for the trash can. The fire alarm went off, a loud insistent beeping from the device above their heads, and the phone rang straight after. They looked at each other and mentally assigned tasks to each without a word. Jaime ran to the phone, to assure the man on the other side that yes everything was fine, and no he didn't need anyone to come upstairs, and god no they certainly had no need of a firetruck. It was easy to mimick Tyrion's voice, it was just barely deeper than his. He hang up and looked at the familiar scene, Cersei standing on a chair much like she had been earlier, apparently engaged in an even fight against the alarm. Judging by the muttered cussing and the ongoing beeps, she was losing.

"Have you ever done this?" he asked, tilting his head and resting his hands over her calves. He brushed his thumbs against her shin, grazing the stocking with his nails.

"No, and _stop that_ , I'm ticklish and I will fall," she snapped. "What do I do, there's no button."

"Just grab a few cables and pull them out," Jaime suggested. "Tyrion won't even notice."

"Not until he is dumb enough to start a fire." There was a hint of hopefulness in Cersei's voice that made him roll his eyes and slap her thigh. "One can dream," she added. At last she managed to pull a few cables from the device. "Electrocution was not on my christmas list this year."

The beeping was growing louder, hammering into Jaime's ear annoyingly. "Just pull, these things are supposed to be safe," he said, raising his voice over the sound of the alarm. Cersei did as she was told, closing her eyes as she did so, with a quick, sharp tug. The beeping stopped on the spot, and Jaime rushed to the stove to put it out.

His sister sighed deeply as she climbed off the tall stool, bringing the candy cane back to her lips. "Don't despair, at least you're good-looking," she slurred, dangling the hard candy between her teeth.

Jaime smiled apologetically.

Outside, the snow kept falling.

 

* * *

 

One hour later they had both resigned to eating the entire content of Tyrion's stockings. Cersei had finally finished her candy cane; Jaime had finished all of the chocolates because she didn't eat chocolate. The couch was a war zone of candy wrappings and crumbs and Jaime wasn't sure how they would ever hide the evidence of their massacre, let alone refill Tyrion's escorts to pretend they were never there. But with Cersei there, legs tucked underneath her and hair falling in her eyes looking every bit the child she once was, it was hard to focus on the problems, let alone struggle for a solution. She was glowing and Jaime told himself that his sister was happy. In that moment, with only him. He couldn't remember the last time he had seen her that comfortable, carefree even. Then again, he couldn't remember the last time he had been at this much at peace himself.

"What did you get me for Christmas?" asked Cersei, popping a lemon flavored jelly in her mouth. "Is it jewelry?"

"Well, not a car," he said, sinking into the leather, stretching his legs before him.

The white envelope with Joffrey's gift lay abandoned nearby the entrance where Jaime had left it. The ownership certificate read few details about the vehicle but Jaime knew Cersei would only go big; he wondered how many zeroes his son's love was worth. Not that he cared. For all it mattered, Joffrey was Robert's, despite genetics. He had his blonde hair and his green eyes, but he shared a temper with his father that Jaime did not take credit for. And too much pride - that he had gotten from his mother.

"Oh, let it go already," Cersei whined, scrunching up the silver wrapper and dropping it onto her lap. It bounced and fell onto the couch where it joined the colourful graveyard of long gone treats.

Jaime reached a hand up to the side of her face, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and relishing the eager look on her face. Cersei was a magpie; she loved things that shined, diamonds and other sparkling things that would make her feel like the queen she felt she was. Jaime often wondered if he should get his sister a crown; she might wear it, that was how strongly she believed in her own cause.

"I hate giving you presents," he said, dropping his hand and looking away.

Cersei narrowed her eyes and suckled on the jelly in her mouth. She looked less than pleased. Of course she would, the thought that she might be less than celebrated by anyone was outrageous to her, and if that someone was him... he could only imagine how little it would take his sister to run a mile with his statement and hold a grudge for the rest of the holidays. So he was quicker, sneaked an arm around her waist and pulled her towards him, sitting her across him with her legs draped over his. But Cersei had not forgotten, so he knew he had to explain.

"I can never give you what I want," he added, brushing his palm over her leg, the shin, the knee; he stopped midthigh and shook his head. "It never seems enough, and at the same time it always seems too much. I'm afraid if I get you a diamond too big, or a ruby too bright -- that once you wear them, I will realize it was foolish to think they wouldn't pale by comparison."

"Now you're just trying to appease me," she said, lifting a skeptical eyebrow but doing nothing to stop the small smile from tugging at her lips.

He laughed. "And I never know what Father might say," he added, and he felt the cold of what he said, the ice in the implications. Cersei felt it too, likely, because the smile fell from her face, replaced by commiseration. For him and for herself.

"Well what would you give me then, if it was just you and me?" asked Cersei, eagerly and obviously trying to keep the mood from falling. She kicked her shoes off and shifted so that she was sitting properly on his knees; she thought it fitting, in that moment he was Santa Claus and she was the little girl asking for an endless list of presents she knew she wouldn't get.

He rested a hand over her thigh and left it there, training his eyes on the ceiling. He drew patterns over her skin, absent-minded and without malice; he tried to gather all thoughts of all the material things he would present her with: diamond rings and emerald necklaces, the most expensive furs and the most precious silvers. And all of himself, if she asked it of him.

Eventually the answer was easier to find than he had expected it to be. "Everything you ever wanted. The smallest request and the biggest. The silliest desire." She smiled and he patted her leg. "What did _you_ get me?"

“I seem to recall you already, ah, _unwrapped_ your present?” His sister dodged the question like a pro, carrying his mind elsewhere, more enjoyable. If she could keep him there, on that level of pleasure and lust, she could keep the hurt at bay. For him and for herself. Selish as that was of both of them, and careless too, Jaime did nothing to steer her back; instead he played along, wrapping an arm around her waist and shifting her ‘till her back hit the couch. He towered her with a smug grin and tugged at the back of her knees until her body was level with his.

“Yes, and I am ever so lucky I can enjoy it more than once,” he replied.

Just as he went in to kiss her the light above them flickered, and thunder broke loud and scary. The windows shook. An alarm went off somewhere. Then they were left in the dark. Outside, the sky was dark, every ray of sunlight blocked out by big, grey clouds.

“What now?” Cersei asked, propping herself on her elbows to look around the room.

“The electricity, the storm is fucking off with it,” Jaime replied. There was an imperceptible change in the temperature as well, with the heating system failing just as the lights went out. If he knew Cersei -- and he did -- she would start complaining about the cold in less than half an hour. He looked down, leaned in to place a peck on her forehead before pushing himself off her. “I’ll start the fire,” he offered, turning to the beautiful marble fireplace on the opposite wall, a few feet away from the television. “Give me a lighter,” he asked, opening his hand.

Cersei swallowed. “I have quit smoking, you know that.”

“Cersei.”

It had been going for the past six months. He had mocked her about being an addict, and his sister had told him she would have no trouble quitting. It was the principle that bothered her, he had figured; the idea that she might be dependent on anything -- let alone anyone. To give her credit, she had lasted two months without. But then he had felt it on her tongue when he kissed her. She lied, told him she had quit for real, that she was strong enough to do it. She had kept lying for the four months that followed. He had let her have that, stopped asking but laughed to himself whenever he found a cigarette butt forgotten in the ashtray in her room.

“Come on, give me your lighter,” he insisted, lifting an eyebrow as he crouched down by the fireplace.

When she threw the matchbox she retrieved from her coat, it missed his head by inches.

 

* * *

 

One hour later Jaime held the poker tight between his fingers, poking at the hot logs to be sure the flames had the oxygen they needed. The room was far from the warm haven he wished it would be, but he thought to give it time. It would grow bigger and the warmth would come with it. He had dragged the smaller loveseat forward, sitting down on it and throwing paper in the fireplace lazily now and then, to help the fire. It had been too long before the first log had caught fire, but when it had Jaime had whistled victoriously. His sister sat on the carpet nearby their brother’s christmas tree, holding up the presents and shaking them against her ear, playing a guessing game. It had taken all of Jaime’s persuasion to keep her from tearing at the wrappings. The candies they could replace; the presents, however… It was particularly hard to sway his sister to let go of a package whose content clinked attractively. Cersei said it would probably be a set of glasses, _“since he is an alcoholic”_. Jaime didn’t tell her she drank quite as much as their younger brother, choosing to poke a log instead, and drop it.

When she finally stood up to come by the fire she placed her hands before it, looking for the warmth. Jaime took in her whole appearance, eyes travelling over her; the red glow seemed to paint a light blush on her cheeks, casting shadow on her dress, just as red, just as violent. She was Hell and sin, and Jaime smiled thinking at least that was his Hell, and it surely looked a lot like Heaven. He leaned with his elbows on his knees, craning his neck to look at her; he brought a thumb to his lips and bit on the nail, letting his eyes wander down her body, down the curve of her sides and her hips, and all the way up again to her eyes. The flames seemed to dance in her pupils.

“Take it off,” he said.

Cersei didn’t move but she flexed her fingers, shifting her weight for one foot to the other. When she turned her head to assess his request, there was no hint of confusion, just elated satisfaction. She knew what she was, what she had, and what he wanted.

“What?”

“Everything. Take everything off.”

“Why?”

“I haven’t looked at you in so long,” he murmured, shaking his head as he straightened his back only to fall back against the loveseat. “Let me have this.”

A shadow seemed to cross his sister’s face, and he fears she might deny him that. It is only the flames though, playing and dancing on Cersei’s unblemished skin, lying. She dropped her arms by her sides and turned her entire body to face him, taking one step forward, just one, to bathe in the light of the fireplace. She mimicked him, tilting her head too and smiling; it was almost motherly, and for the fraction of a second he thought Joanna was in the room, not Cersei. But then she moved, reaching behind her back, and Joanna was most definitely not there. He watched on as she pulled the zipper down, as the bodice gave up and a sleeve fell down her shoulder. Every move was slow, a show she put on for him with no music or vulgarity. It was the same dicotomy once more; as Cersei undressed, pushing the upper part of the dress down to her waist, Jaime was sure he must be witnessing the baring of an angel.

The dress pooled around her feet and she stood in her red underwear, more a devil than an angel, and black stockings he’d only gotten rid of hours earlier. He was glad now that she had put them back on in the meanwhile; she looked like nothing he had ever seen (and _all_ he had ever seen too, for he had only ever seen her, and that had always been enough for him.) Her long fingers tugged at the hem of the silky stockings, pulling them down one by one. She made a move to close the distance but Jaime sat up and grabbed her by the hips, keeping her on the spot.

“Everything, Cersei.”

His sister’s lips parted and she inhaled deeply, exhaling slowly. His eyes trailed to her breasts, watching their steady rising and falling; he was mesmerized at the roundness that threatened to spill from the lacy bra, and it was hard to resist the urge to reach up and touch her and satisfy his first instincts. He grabbed her hands and put them on her hips, replacing his own; he laid back once more, clenching his fists over the armrests.

Cersei’s thumbs slipped under the lace, pulled at it and let it slap back against her skin. Jaime swallowed; the fire scalded one side of his face but the rest of his body seemed to be aflame just as well. He pressed his palms into his thighs. Her fingers toyed with the hem, around her waist, before pulling it down just enough that he could glimpse at the golden curls between her legs, all the while wishing it was him instead, that he could touch her, watch her throw her head back and moan his name. He was losing his own game, but it was the most delicious defeat he’d ever had the pleasure of tasting.

Before he could give in and beg her, before he could whisper ‘Cersei please’, she pushed the thong all the way down her legs. She stepped out of it, drawing closer; Jaime perched himself on the edge of the loveseat, unable to stand the immobility anyway. He opened his legs to let her step in between them. He flickered his fingers over her calves, caressed the back of her thighs and placed them on her ass, pressing his forehead against her stomach. She stroked his hair and he breathed her in, feeling the smell of her filling his nostrils and fucking with his mind, erasing all thoughts that weren’t her. His lips found the soft skin over her right hip, and he sucked on it, spurred by her fingernails scraping against his scalp and the subtle hiss she let out when his teeth scratched and bit, leaving the spot a somewhat bright red.

Jaime lifted his gaze, pressing his chin against her mound. The blood in his veins was singing for the blood in hers, rushing to his heart and his head as if in an attempt to find a way out to her. He felt light-headed and dizzy, intoxicated by her presence and enamoured with every little mole he could see on her: the small one between her breasts, the heart-shaped one on her left thigh.

Jaime remembered everything and he could write her down like a map with the utmost accuracy. He traced the outline of her belly button with his tongue and she chuckled shifting to get away; but his grasp on her buttocks was too firm and eventually she stopped struggling. When she took off her bra at last, Jaime stood up, wrapping his hands around her jawline and making her look up to him. The fire was warm against her skin and warmer against his clothes. He looked down then, taking in the whole of her body like he was witnessing a miracle for the first time. In the haste of stolen moments, he could not remember the last time he had truly looked at her and thought of the wonder and thirst her body evoked from him. Her skin was a canvas, a blank canvas he could draw infinite patterns on - she the muse, he the painter.

His fingers traced her shoulders, skimming down her arms and back up, feeling the outline of her breasts barely touching them. He closed his eyes and memorized it all over again, going down the path he knew by heart and experiencing it all over again. The pain in his groin was almost unbearable, and his fingers curled around her hips, pulling her against him and letting out a low moan at the sudden friction. Cersei’s hands wove through his hair, guiding his head down to hers, kissing him over and over again. Quick, light, violent kisses to claim his lips, but pulling away every time he tried to deepen the kiss. His grip was vicious, squeezing her hips in frustation, then sneaking around her and grabbing her ass cheeks again, pulling her flush against him and kissing his way down the column of her throat. Whispering her name. Over and over again.

Jaime barely felt her fingers fumble with the buttons of his shirt until she was done with it, exposing his naked chest and pushing the fabric down his shoulders. It hang there as Jaime refused to let her body go, glued to her as he was; his hands found the perfect spots on Cersei’s lower back, clinging to her with ardour close to desperation.

He let her steer him backwards, stumbling back down onto the loveseat, this time followed by her and not a lone watcher. She straddled him and started trailing kisses along his jawline, and Jaime didn’t know if the rush of heat to his head was the fire or her proximity.

As much as he wanted to feed her eagerness, it struck him that this was not how he wanted it. Too many times had he been sated with a quick, hungry fuck. Too often had they been limited by people, and things, and time, and situations that did not allow him to have her the way he wanted to. At some point in their lives it had stopped being a worshipping worthy of the definition, leaning more towards the final feeding of a starved animal, a violent act, an explosion that left nothing behind. So he slowed her down, grabbing the side of her face and forcing her to break her ministrations, to look at him instead and just stop for a moment and really see him.

Her lips were plump from his kisses and her hands were feverish against his skin, but when he pulled away she abided. Her uneven breath made her all the more beautiful, symptom of a want that was meant for him. Her eyes were green, big, and confused, but a mirror to see himself in. Her lips parted, moved as she tried to talk, ask questions, but he silenced her with his own. Only this time it was slow, an exploration that her body accepted anxiously. The tables were turned, and every time Cersei tried to go faster, deeper, he pulled away and gave her pause. A game of give and take if there ever was one, and they were masters and slaves of themselves.

“I miss this,” he whispered, kissing her shoulder, grazing her collarbones with his teeth. Familiarity guided his hands between her legs, sliding a finger between her folds, massaging the slick wetness that called out for him with the light pressure of her knees at his sides. “I _fucking_ miss this,” he repeated, looking up to see her sink her teeth into her bottom lip and stifle a moan when he teased her core.

“That makes no sense,” she said in between hard breathing, grinding against his palm to find a release he wasn’t keen on giving her right now, not without him. “You have me.”

“Not like this,” he retorted, slipping a finger inside her. His lips fell open just as hers did and the air left his lungs just as it did hers. But unlike her eyes, his stayed open, drinking in the sight of her body slowly growing to be outside her control, pushing down on his hand. She reached her hands behind her, on his knees, leveraging herself for a different angle, pushing her chest outside. He didn’t waste that chance, leaning in to suck a nipple between his teeth, stealing glances upwards everytime he moved his fingers inside her, feeling the dependence of his orgasm on hers.

But the more he touched her and the closest she got to climax, the slower he got. Until he barely moved, feeling her inner muscles clench around his fingers and refusing to touch her. He pulled away altogether, working on his belt instead, unbuckling his pants and pushing off the seat enough to push them down to his knees. She was just as active, brushing her hands against his in the attempt to get rid of the intruding garnments. It wasn’t until he had kicked them off with his shoes and socks that he sneaked both arms around her waist and slid to the edge of the loveseat, kneeling to the ground and laying her on the carpet.

She was a Madonna of the finer kinds, with her blonde hair spread around her in a naked glory, bathing in the dancing shadows of the flames in the fireplace; the lust in her eyes and the scraping of her fingernails down his forearms made him shiver. He wondered if when Judgment Day came he would be as lucky as to be condemned by such a sacred creature.

Cersei’s fingers wrapped around his erection and everything else was forgotten. It was Jaime who closed his eyes then, Jaime who buried his face against her neck and groaned against her skin, thrusting into her grip because of some unconscious need to let her take him and lead him where she wanted to. He would walk into a fiery furnace if that were to be her wish, and burn and never ask for mercy; pain with her, and for her, was preferrable to a bland existence anywhere else. He would choose the pain over and over again.

If his body crushed hers, she didn’t seem to care or to want it any other way. She squirmed under his weight but not to get free; she wrapped her legs around his waist, pressing her pelvis into his and brushing against his cock. With her free hand she kept him there, by his hair, in the crook of her neck, a secret only hers to keep. Jaime couldn’t tell if it was him or it was her, or it was some mutual search for the other, bodies craving to be back in that peace where they belonged, joint as the were conceived and together as they were born. Like a sword returning to its scabbard after a bloody bath, Jaime found that completion and _rest_ inside her, and in every sigh that left her lips he found himself, only being truly for as long as she spoke his name, nothing when she didn’t. Who was she, but what she made of him? In a life of commands and expectations, hers were the only ones whose fulfillment he wished to attend to. _A knight and a queen_.

Like a queen, he took her. With slow thrusts, his hands caressing every inch of her that craved for his attention: her breasts, her legs, her sides, her hips, jutting forward to meet his movements in perfect synchronization. She was clinging to his shoulders fiercely, whispering something sweet in his ear. Love, and promises of years to come: he accepted it all because he had no choice. He had to believe in the possibility of what she offered because the alternative was too painful to admit. A life without her? What would he be without her, and she without him?

It was sweet and bitter, it was tragedy and pleasure, but it was them and he knew it well. He’d known it all his life, even before it happened. Jaime wagered, sometimes, that he’d known it in the womb already, when he’d clung so fiercely to her on their way out, before his brain was capable of understanding. He knew before she knew.

They were empty shells. But not now.

Cersei writhed beneath him, sighs replaced by loud prayers to a God they both knew did not exist, or if he did he was surely looking away in shame. Her sweat clung to his chest, glistening in the light coming from the fiery logs. It looked like dew, the slapping of their bodies against each other and her low curses the only noises giving away the truth of their obscenity.

She came with a shudder, his name the only thing he could hear, and hers falling from his own lips. Her legs shook around his waist, muscles tensing beneath his fingertips, and he only grabbed her tighter, thrusting quicker and harder to make it last. He followed her right after, biting his own moans away but locking eyes with her, resting his forehead against his instead of hiding his face against her chest. He bit her bottom lip and she squeezed the skin over his hips, pulling him impossibly into her with each added thrust; each drew even the smallest breath of life from the other, every last drop of pleasure, to take it for themselves.

Even in the aftermath, they didn’t move. They waited in silence, listening as their breathing evened, waiting for their heartbeats to slow down in perfect unison until they were one and the same. He stayed buried inside her, his weight on his elbows in the attempt not to crush her tiny frame. Cersei was glancing up at him through heavy lidded eyes, trailing her fingers up and down his sides like tiny feathers.

She was the one to break the silence.

“Merry Christmas,” she muttered, pushing the golden strands from his eyes, maybe wishing she could chase away whatever barely hidden sadness she could read in them.

“Merry Christmas,” he murmured in response, maybe wishing just as well that he could chase away whatever barely hidness sadness he could read in hers.

 


End file.
